Beneath the Porcelain Mask

3. "La Carlotta, who sings like a cockroach."

"Of course, when I use these words, I do not mean to apply them to La Carlotta, who sings like a cockroach and who ought never to have been allowed to leave the Ambassadeurs and the Cafe Jacquin..."
~Erik, regarding Carlotta's talent in a note to the managers.

Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera.

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"This is yours, Mam'zelle," the chief stagehand said, passing me a bucket, mopping cloth and wire scrub for the harder to clean places. He stank of alcohol, one of the worst cases I'd come across. And I'd come across plenty.

"Thank you, monsieur," I nodded, starting to turn away from both him and the equally disgusting cleaning closet. He grabbed my arm and I could have sworn I'd be ill there and then.

"For you," he whispered in my ear, setting alarm bells off in my mind, "it's Joseph."

I pulled a face and wriggled from his grip. He smirked at my disgust and picked his bottle of rum from the nearby self, where he'd put it in favour of picking out my equipment for the day.

"I know a very nice place in the attics of this opera-"

"Thank you but no thank you, monsieur," I snapped, recoiling and heading straight for the door. I knew those attics better than he anyhow. There would be no evening meal lit with candles and adorned with sweet flowers, that was for sure. "Now leave me alone."

Before he could breath a word of a reply, I scurried away to the stage, not stopping until I found the wings. A glance over my shoulder proved that the Joseph man was either lagging behind or still in the cupboard. I breathed a small sigh of relief; even the smell of alcohol made me feel like vomiting. He was a disaster waiting to happen.

I'd speak to Erik about him, for sure.

I dunked the mopping cloth in the warm water and kneeled. This floor was indeed filthy. I sighed and set to work, scrubbing hard.

Ten minutes in and the wings weren't packed with people per say, but I had made sure to stay out of the way of the extras that were there. That being said:

"Mademoiselle de La Chance?"

I looked up, blowing hair out of my mask as it escaped the bun I'd practically failed to tie it in. "Yes?"

"You're late, Mademoiselle."

The owner of the voice was standing a few feet away, fiddling with a length of rope between his hands.

"Monsieur Desrosiers." I smiled, brushing a lock of untameable chestnut hair from the eyehole of my mask.

He tensed and ran a hand down his brace, glancing at the stage and then back at me. My smile wavered and I set myself back to scrubbing.

"Nice weather we're having," he blurted out at last. I frowned slightly at the floor. He slapped a hand over his mouth.

"Yes, it is," I said, scrubbing less harshly now and sneaking a look at him from the shadows of my mask. "A very nice, crisp, autumn morn."

Jeremy zipped his lips and looked back at the stage, biting his inner cheek desperately. I hid my growing grin and stared down at the floor I was scrubbing. He turned awkwardly on his hips, glancing at the few performing actors, then at me, then back to the stage again and hopped a little nervous jig for a moment.

It seemed the dance gave him back some of his courage because he went on to ask: "I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle, but is it my hearing or do you have a slightly Eastern accent, Mademoiselle?"